


can't tell you what i'm thinking

by ishie



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M, Telepathy, Tropes, tumblrfics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishie/pseuds/ishie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://muirwolf.tumblr.com/">muirwolf</a> asked for: Donna/Jean-Ralphio - telepathy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't tell you what i'm thinking

At first, Donna thinks it’s the Snake Juice coming back to bite her. There’s a pressure in the front of her head, the kind that will go away pretty easily once eggs and bacon and coffee and hot buttered toast are applied. But she drives the Mercedes all the way over to the diner, taking each block as smoothly as she knows how, as if her body and her baby were made of fragile glass, to help herself to a plate piled high with protein and grease, and still it lingers.

By lunchtime, she’s taken to wearing her shades in the office, squinting through the pressure and trying to swallow back the surges of nausea and irritation that shoot through her whenever anyone talks or coughs or sneezes or _breathes_ anywhere within two hundred yards.

By two, she’s stepping on the gas and high-tailing it down Orchard toward her condo before Jerry’s promise to run the visitor’s center financials in her place is hardly even out of his mouth.

In the cool dark of her bedroom, she suddenly remembers she didn’t even drink the night before.

It isn’t until she’s halfway through placing a new order on SkyMall a few hours later that she realizes the pressure has coalesced into thoughts that cannot possibly be her own.

Worse, she knows exactly whose they are.

“What in the hell did you do to me?” she demands when Jean-Ralphio picks up on the first ring.

“Donna  _Meagle_ ,” he smarms. She can practically smell the Dennis Feinstein through the phone. “Aren’t you a sound for so—”

“Shut up, skinny boy. Tell me what you did.”

There’s a flash of confusion ripping through her mind to echo the protest on the phone, and she knows whatever this craziness is, he didn’t have anything to do with it. Somehow, for once, something’s gone wrong and it’s  _not_ his fault.

“I told you,” he says.

“You’re damn sure gonna fix it.”

 _Maybe_.

“No, for real.”

His mental pouts are as loud as his horrible music, it turns out.

 _You know, you’re a beautiful single woman; I’m a carefree bachelor. We could have some fun with this, baby girl, you know we could_ , he suggests as she’s getting ready for bed that night.

Before she can stop it, that _bounce bounce bounce_  nonsense he tried on her once before is on a loop through her brain, and she thinks about how long it’s been since she  _did_ get daggered on the dance floor — damn that Marcus anyway — and the rush of excitement she feels isn’t entirely hers, or his, or unwelcome.

Anybody breathes a word of this  _ever_ , though, and he is going to be in a galaxy of pain.

“Oh, I believe that,” Jean-Ralphio says when she opens the front door to let him in. “I do believe that, ba-. Okay, fine, I’ll stop calling you that!”


End file.
